A stroke of misery
by ohcomely23
Summary: warning: Death!fic.


Warning: Death fic.

Peter and Neal were on hour four of a stake-out and both men were growing increasingly bored… and hungry. Luckily, El had packed them both a lunch- deviled ham for Peter, a cold-cut sandwich for Neal. The two men ate greedily.

Neal kept complaining of a headache, but Peter put it down as Neal trying to get out of working.  
Neal was never really one to complain, and so the incessant wining was surely a ploy to leave Peter with all of the work.

"Peter?"

Peter snapped his head towards Neal.

"This is a stake-out, Neal. You're not getting out of this."

Peter turned back towards the computer in the van.

"Peter." This time, Neal's voice was softer, flatter, less _Neal_.  
Neal stood, and _BAM_, the sound made Peter jump.

Neal had swatted his hand onto one of the van's small desks with a loud thump—it seemed as if he was trying to catch himself somehow, clumsily, as though he had lost his usual agility, his coordination.

The floor was getting closer, and Neal felt his legs wobble beneath him, betraying him, refusing to support his weight.

_That's… gonna… hurt…_  
Neal knew he was falling, and he couldn't stop his fall, knowing that he was about to get a face-full of floor.

But Peter stepped over and caught the younger man. He always caught him.

The two of them sunk to the floor together.

"Neal? Hey, you okay? Neal?"

Neal's eyes fluttered a bit, his breathing hitched, and he went limp.

Peter reached up onto the desk and grabbed his phone.

"I need an ambulance! Man down!" He looked towards Neal who was ten shades more pale than normal.

"Neal. Neal?" He gently nudged the CI… but nothing

Peter's chest felt tight. He scanned Neal, looking for an injury.  
He didn't see any blood, any bullet wounds. Peter knew how to bandage a wound, how to clean it… but he couldn't see anything physically wrong with the young man.

Neal was trembling a bit, and his left hand was curled into a fist. His right hand however was limp.

"Neal?" Peter eased Neal onto his lap, cradling the head of his thirty-two year old son. His heart was racing now.

Neal began to stir a little bit but, just as Peter began to get his hopes up, he stopped.

"Neal? Neal! NEAL!"

EMTs swarmed into the van, plucking Neal from Peter's lap and stealing him away from his view.

Everything was moving quickly and slowly at the same time.

Unsteadily, Peter rose to his feet. Jones was waiting for him, and the two of them followed the ambulance in silence. Peter still wasn't sure what had happened.

Fifteen minutes later, Peter was pacing the hospital waiting room. El had arrived at some point, and the two had briefly hugged, but Peter couldn't think.

_Allergic reaction maybe?  
Exhaustion?_

An excruciating fifteen minutes later, a defeated looking doctor came out and motioned for them.

"Family of Mr. Caffrey?"

Mozzie cleared his throat. _Mozzie? When had he gotten there?  
_  
Peter allowed his eyes to sweep the room, to really look, for the first time.  
June and El were clutching one another's arms, Mozzie was fidgeting, and Diana and Jones were backed into a corner.

The doctor guided Mozzie towards him. "Sir, maybe we should talk back here—"

"No-" Mozzie snapped. He was petrified of hospitals, and to go behind a closed door where no one could see him and where he could possibly be-

"Sir.. I think that you should…"

"No, anything you have to say about Neal… you can tell us." He sighed, bracing himself.

"Mr. Caffrey… Mr. Caffrey suffered a stroke. We did everything we could, but the damage was too excessive. His brain went without oxygen for too long. We were able to resuscitate him on the ambulance ride, but when we arrived at the hospital, he began to have seizures. His body went into shock and… and we lost him."

Mozzie blanched.  
El began sobbing uncontrollably, and June just closed her eyes, enveloping El in a hug, her own tears mixing with El's.

Peter shook his head in disbelief.  
_No, that's not right. This can't be right. I was just with him. I picked him up this morning. He was making fun of my deviled ham…_

Peter hadn't realized he had spoken aloud.  
The doctor looked at him with concern, but Peter wasn't having it.  
"No, he's alive." Peter barreled past the doctor and into the hallway, peering into rooms when- his heart stopped.

Room 412.  
The name _N. Caffrey_ was written on a dry-erase board on the door.

Peter took a step into the room and saw a body covered in a white sheet.

_No, this isn't Neal. Neal is fine. This is probably some con. Yeah, this is a con. Probably trying to sneak off with Mozzie and the other half of his treasure._

Then why was Peter so nervous?

He inched towards the sheet and resolved to take a quick look, just to be sure it wasn't Neal. Because it couldn't hurt to double check, right? Neal was fine.

Peter peeled back the sheet, and then he dropped it as though it were on fire.  
_NO._

Peter let in a choked gasp and felt himself swaying.

Neal. _Neal._  
Neal was pale as death- oh god. Because he was dead.

Peter had only to look at the young man to know it.

He lifted a shaking hand to Neal's cheek- not quite cold, but not warm… not full of life. Just cool.

Neal would never flip his fedora on his head again.  
He would never cringe at one of Peter's ties.  
He would never paint again.  
Peter would never see those brilliant blue eyes again.  
His friend. His partner. His brother.  
Neal would never speak again- and it was not lost on Peter that the last word he'd ever said had been his name.

"Sir, you can't be back here."  
It was the doctor from before.

Peter's eyes were glued to Neal's body. He was blinking back stinging tears, and he could feel his breathing exhilarate.

In, out, in out.  
Peter was hyperventilating.  
Neal Caffrey was dead.


End file.
